The Head and the Heart
by JossIsMyGod
Summary: Sherlock receives news of a member of a secret group of criminal geniuses who has found the key to immortality. As he and John investigate, it becomes apparent that Sherlock has changed. And not for the better. *First Sherlock fic I've written. Enjoy :D*
1. The Virgin

Dr John Watson stood there watching Sherlock Holmes. They had been friends now for quite a while and in their time together, they had developed an interesting relationship. It was hard to have any kind of relationship with the famous Sherlock Holmes and a normal relationship was even harder to come by. This was _Sherlock Holmes_. The man who kept a severed head in the fridge for an experiment. The man who solved cases and saved lives for fun.

As John watch Sherlock intently, he wondered about what he knew about this incredible man and, more importantly, what he didn't know.

Sherlock observed various slides through a microscope, not making a sound. It was unusual for him to be silent. When in deep thought, he spoke out loud. That, nicotine and many other strange things, helped him to concentrate.

"What?" Sherlock asked in a quiet tone that said he was barely concentrating on the other man's reply.

"What?" Repeated John, shaking his head, focusing on reality ad not the mystery parts Sherlock Holmes' life.

"You want to ask me something." Sherlock stated as though it were obvious.

"I just wanted to know," he paused, unsure how to phrase the thought that had been swimming in his head for a while now.

"Yes?" Sherlock seemed a little impatient but in no rush to end the conversation.

"How, exactly, are you a virgin?" John 's face flared red, he was sure. It definitely felt like it. Why had he been so blunt? Wasn't there a function in his head to make the question seem more heterosexual and less like he wanted to take Sherlock right there and then? He guessed not and, unable to take back what he had spontaneously said, looked at Sherlock.

The taller handsome man had not moved or showed any other sign of interest in what the doctor had uttered and instead changed the slide once more. After what seemed like an eternal awkward silence, Sherlock replied. "I don't know."

"Well surely you do." John moved in closer now, not feeling as red-faced as he was only a moment ago.

"I've never really found anybody I adore so much to be with them in a physical or romantic relationship." A moments pause. "I just haven't."

"Have you ever been with anyone at all?" John asked, now standing at the table were Sherlock was working. "Or even thought about anyone in __that __way?"

"No." Sherlock breathed, still looking down the microscope.

"Then what about…" John started, unable to finish. "Do you…"

"Are you asking me if I masturbate, John?" Sherlock saw the point even before his friend did.

"Yes." He shyly answered. "I guess I am."

"Then yes I do," was Sherlock's honest answer. "Not when you're home but yes, I do."

"Okay." John felt a little awkward now.

"Do you masturbate John?" Sherlock asked, taking a moment from his observation to survey the look on his friend's face.

"Yes," John was honest too. This, Sherlock was not expecting.

"Oh." He said, going back to the microscope.

"Okay. Well," John moved back and clapped his hands together. "I'm off to the shop. Want anything?"

"Yes. Get me a bottle of vinegar."

"Sure." John turned to leave the room.

When he heard John ask Mrs Hudson if she would like anything from the shop and the door close, Sherlock allowed himself to move. He made the new shape in his underwear more comfortable and looked at the face he had shot into the wall. Smiling as he thought of John's reaction what he had done, Sherlock returned, once again, to his observing of slides.

__Thirty Minuets Later...__

The door slammed shut and footsteps sounded up the stairs. John was back.

"I've got you vinegar, Sherlock." He said as he emptied the contents of the bag into the fridge.

"Excellent!" He jumped up from his chair and set his violin down next to the closed laptop that belonged to his flatmate. As Sherlock walked up to John, he held out the bottle in front of him. As Sherlock took it without a word, their fingers touched. There was a definite connection between the two but it didn't last long as John passed his companion and made his way to the laptop.

Johns eyes lingered on the bow of the violin. He touched it gently, with care. His fingers stroked up and down the hair of the bow, feeling it's materiel. Sherlock appeared behind John. He reached round John's right to pick up the bow and his left to pick up the violin.

"Let me teach you." He said, but it came out more of a whisper.

"Sure," was all John could manage.

Sherlock placed the violin to John's body. The blonde hared man rested his chin as he had seen Sherlock do so many times before. Sherlock showed John the correct arrangement his fingers needed to be so that a beautiful four-note melody could be played.

Forty minuets later John was able to play the tune without much of a struggle. Sherlock remained behind him though, neither of them wanting to sit down or stop the music.

"That's beautiful," Sherlock smiled at John in congratulations for being a fast learner.

"Thanks," was John's reply. "You're a great teacher." He set the violin down and turned to look Sherlock in the eyes innocently. "Got anything else to teach me?"

"I was thinking more along the lies of you teaching me…" Sherlock let out a long breath as he leaned in. His hands cupped Johns face and arched his head upwards so they could kiss comfortably.

A beam of light shone through the window and highlighted the boys. John noted that the breath he had inhaled smelled like his mouthwash. Sherlock had used his mouthwash. This gesture wasn't as spontaneous as it seemed.

Lips connected and bodies came closer together. John's hands pulled at Sherlock's back, bringing him closer. While Sherlock's hands were pulling John in by the shoulders. John slid his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth and Sherlock retorted by doing the same.

For a little while, their hands slid over each others bodies groping parts they liked.

Both of them were unable t contain the lust that had overcome them. John, being the only one experienced in sexual endeavours, began to unbutton the black shirt that Sherlock was wearing. When new flesh was revealed, John couldn't contain himself, so he didn't. He kissed, licked and bit gently at the exposed body of the tall dark haired man.

Sherlock's head moved beck, his eyes closed and as he let out a low sound of pleasure from his lips, another sound was heard.

It was the sexual moan of a woman. It had come from a phone on the table, just a little beyond the laptop and the violin. Sherlock's phone, of course.

He ran to it and opened the message excitedly. It read:

__I think the park looks beautiful in this weather, wouldn't you agree, Mr Holmes?__

"She's here." Sherlock said as he ran from the room, leaving a shocked John Watson alone. John looked at his feet, embarrassed and confused. He had almost forgotten about the Woman. A dark haired figured ran back into the room whilst re-buttoning his shirt and grabbing his coat and scarf. "She's here!" He repeated before running out again.

"I heard," John said to himself as he looked out at the street, now dark from the clouds. He saw Sherlock run in the direction of the local park and thought though the past few moments, tying to get them to make sense.

A few raindrops hit the window lightly as John became overcome with sorrow. He turned and leaned against the wall. He listened to the sound of the now heavy falling rain. An observer would have said that the water running down the outside of the windowpane had washed the sorrowful man to the floor.

He sat there, listening to the four note melody that his friend had taught him. He was unable to get the tune out of his head. He touched his fingers to his lips and let tears fall as free as the rain outside, now storm like.

A sound came from the lips of the ex army doctor. It was the tune. His tune. Sherlock's tune. Their tune.

And as he sat there he wondered about his friend and what _he _thought of the exchange, his mind filled of memories. Seeing Sherlock's body, watching him work, trying to figure out everything about everything, the feel of his tongue, the taste of his skin, the way he made John smile…

For hours he sat, waiting for Sherlock to return and hold him and tell him it was all going to be okay. But he didn't John had to reassure himself that life was going to somehow turn out better. He had to drag himself up and to bed.

Just before he dozed off, he wondered were Sherlock was. As he looked at the now black sky, he thought to himself:_With her I bet._

And with that, Dr John Watson fell asleep, thinking of his friend, the great Sherlock Holmes.


	2. Her Message

The room was dark but comfortably warm. John rested in his bed, eyes close yet conscious. He had been like this for a while now, unsure whether he'd open his eyes to real life or the dream within a nightmare he had experienced the previous night. There was no other possible explanation as to what had happened other than he had dreamt it. Sherlock? Show affection? Never. And the chance that he had become intimate with his flatmate were even less. John was a friend, nothing more.

John lifted his hand to his forehead and sighed loudly, disturbing the still air. A few seconds passed before he allowed his eyes to open. The room was lit with the soft light that meant dawn was approaching. He was alone in his room. No other person but himself inside.

As the doctor rose from his bed and dressed himself, he wondered how it was possible for the infamous Irene Adler to trick the great Mycroft Holmes. When Sherlock's older brother had told John of her death, the doctor never really believed him. It was almost as if some part of him deep down knew that she could never die. That she would be there on the sidelines, tugging at Sherlock for the rest of his life. This bothered John and it was almost impossible to understand why.

John made is way into the living room, dawn's light entering through the closed curtains. His laptop sat upon the table, open but switched off. John considered checking his blog and getting something to eat as an early breakfast when a shape, almost silhouetted in the dim light, caught his eye. It was a tall thin shape that was sat in the seat in front of the fire that belonged to John's friend. It took a few seconds for the eyes of the small man to adjust and see his flatmate sat, eyes closed and hands pressed together and placed against his lips, almost as if in prayer.

Sherlock was never a person of faith. It was obvious that if something was an idea, it needed proof to become fact. Sherlock lived in a world where proving ideas was part of life. To him, the transition from idea to fact _was_ life. He would never pray. He would never have faith in anything but his own thinking capacity. Sherlock believed in Sherlock and that was enough. At least to him it was.

"G'morning." John passed him and opened the curtains to a bleak view. Even though there was little light from the rising sun, it was clear that the day wasn't going to be great. The dark grey clouds that lingered in the heavens served as an omen to the events to come. Of course Mr Holmes wouldn't say so with his logical thinking. But something deep within John Watson's core, what some of the more superstitious and religious people would call his soul, stirred as though disturbed. A uneasy feeling ran over him and as he stared at the clouds, their darkness becoming more obvious as the dawn became day.

Turning back to his flatmate, John shook his head as though to clear him of such a feeling. "Where were you last night?" John questioned Sherlock, failing at a care free tone as he moved to open the second pair of curtains.

"Out," came the reply from the man deep in thought.

John sat in what had became his chair, next to the other man's, and stared deep into the ashes that remained in the fireplace. Whilst John was trying hard to think of the correct way to phrase his question he noticed that Sherlock had moved slightly. It may have been the doctor's imagination but he would have sworn that the consulting detective had moved lightly towards him.

"Did-" John began, unable to think of a better way to phrase it. "Did last night really happen?"

"Yes, John." Came Sherlock's reply. "As did the night before that and the night before that."

John knew by the reply Sherlock had given that he was no longer in the place he was only a moment ago. He was now only pretending for whatever reason. "I mean, did you get a text?"

Silence.

"Yes." Sherlock's pulse quickened but he worked hard to slow it so that his breathing did not follow.

John wanted to ask another question but decided not to. If their moment last night _wasn't_ real, John certainly didn't want to let Sherlock think that he was fabricating memories of kissing him. Instead he asked: "Did you talk to her?"

"Yes."

"What did she say?" John moved a little, becoming uncomfortable when thinking of the Woman and Sherlock being close together.

"You don't seem surprised by the fact that she is alive." He raised one eyebrow but his eyes remained shut and hands in place, unmoving.

"I didn't think she'd remain dead for long." John sat back, sighing a little.

"You sound rather disappointed John." Sherlock's thin lips pulled into a smile of amusement.

"It's not that," John defended himself calmly. "It's just that where ever she is, trouble follows."

"I suppose you're right." Sherlock seemed to have a conclusive tone when he spoke. Almost as if the discussion was over.

The silence lingered in the air for a few more moments before John sat himself in his chair a little more comfortably. "What did you talk about then? You and Irene Adler?"

"She gave me some information."

"About?"

"A man." Sherlock said, again almost conclusively. "Or rather a group of men."

"What?" A feeling washed over John only for a second. He knew it all to well. It was the feeling that had all but consumed him during their encounter with The Woman. It was jealousy. John pushed all emotion into a dark corner while he continued his hunt for knowledge on Sherlock's latest meeting.

"A secret society of the most ingenious mad men of our time." Sherlock's eyes opened and his gaze locked with John's questioning look. John's eyes had been on the other man while he was unable to see. The doctor had been spending the time allowing his eyes to run over his friends features. As soon as the ability to do so had been taken from the doctor, a hollow feeling had replaced the drumming of his heart against his chest.

"Not so secret now that she's told you."

"She told me because she knows of the whereabouts of one of the members of The Society." Sherlock smiled, placing his hands on the arms of his chair. "She told me that this particular member wishes to meet with me. As she put it, _he said that he would be honoured to meet such a man as the great Sherlock Holmes._"

"But you don't fall for flattery." The doctor's eyebrows pulled together in an expression of confusion.

"I know, but he apparently holds the key to immortality."

John shook his head, chuckling softly. "You're lying." But something about the way Sherlock didn't move at all made John's uneasiness return but for a different reason than before.

Sherlock pulled a file from nowhere in particular and handed it to John with a blank expression. John looked into his eyes and saw only a glimmer of wonder and even perhaps admiration. A small part in the back of his mind told him that what he saw in the other man's eyes was meant for him. He silenced the idea and opened the file.

A quick look through the file told John what he needed to know. A man by the name of Jeremy Sinclair, who was born in 1904, worked for Hitler in the second world war. He was part of the biological warfare team but also worked alone on a secret project. He was designing a serum that could stop the effects of ageing in the human species.

John looked up at Sherlock, his face conveyed his mocking disbelief in the story of the mad scientist but he continued to read. There was an image of a young man with dark hair. It seemed recent and the attached sheet of information told John that this was believed to be Doctor Jeremy Sinclair. Only the photo was taken recently, in 2009. The doctor should have been over a century old if still alive. There was no way that this man was him. Reading on with increased scepticism, John learned that there hand been DNA tests. And the results were positive.

"This can't be right." John closed the file and handed it back to Sherlock, their hands meeting momentarily. "No man can be immortal. The test must be faked or something. Or maybe it was his son."

Sherlock just shook his head. "The results indicated a 100% match. They ran the sample sixteen times."

"So, what, you're supposed to go hunt down some guy who's supposedly over a century old?"

"Not me John. _We_."

The sound of the word made John's heart leap a little. He was included. Sherlock wanted him there with him. Sherlock wanted him.

"But why?" John didn't want to sound to excited about being part of Sherlock's two man team. "It can't be physically possible and you can't seriously believe that someone's achieved this."

"I don't believe John, I think" Sherlock only proved what John had previously thought about Sherlock's lack of faith in anything but his own mind. "And what I think is that this is quite a fantastic achievement." He paused a moment before adding to his reply. "And if it turns out that it's a lie, then maybe we'll be able to discover more about The Society." A full blown grin spread across Sherlock face. This made John's pulse quicken with joy. Even though he knew it to be a lie, and suspected Sherlock did also, he was glad about being able to spend time with the other man. He didn't know whether Sherlock felt the same.

"Can I get something to eat first?"


	3. Unknown Destination

John placed the cup he had been drinking from in the sink with deliberate care. He stared for a moment in the direction of mug but his focus was elsewhere. In the distance, John heard four violin notes come together in a short, sweet tune that shook him to the core.

John blinked, shaking his head a little. His eyes flickered to the slim figure that stood, apparently gazing out of the window in silent thought. Sherlock's violin sat on the table beside him, the bow accompanying the instrument. John blinked through the silence as he turned on the tap to allow the water to flow from the pipe and into the mug. Sighing, John rinsed out the mug and placed it on the draining board to dry. He began to think about their most recent case.

He was confused. More confused than he thought he could be. Surely Sherlock didn't believe that some guy from a secret club had found a way to live forever. It was impossible to live forever, right? Just the stuff of science fiction, surely.

But there was a feeling deep within the doctor that made it somewhat impossible to think clearly. Something was off about this, something was wrong. So very wrong. It took the realization that his eyes were locked on Sherlock's unmoving form to bring to light what was unsettling him.

It was Sherlock. Quiet, calm, unexcited about the case which seemed so unusual. He had said nothing since they had spoken an hour before. Not even a word. Nothing.

John shook himself of the memory pressing against his consciousness and walked into the living room.

"Sherlock?" John moved between his friend and that which he had been focusing on. "Sherlock, I'm ready." There was no sign of acknowledgement from the seated detective. "Sherlock!" John clapped his hands in front of the other man's face with no effect. Sighing, John moved to get his phone from the kitchen counter.

"Hurry up John!" Sherlock called from the bottom of the stairs.

Outside, Sherlock had already gotten into a black cab and was looking out of the window, his face void of a telling expression. John climbed into the cab and sat next to his friend, making sure to leave a little space between them. John looked from the back of the driver's head to Sherlock and back again. Sherlock must have told the driver where they were going before John got into the cab, their destination still a mystery to the doctor. He turned to look out of the window and watch the world pass by as the cab moved away from 221b Baker Street.

"So where are going exactly?" When the silence drew on with no response from the detective, John sighed and looked to the other man. "Sherlock?" He frowned a little, his friend seemingly ignoring him. "Fine," he huffed, turning back to watch as many buildings, trees and pedestrians sped past.

The sight blurred as John's mind slid back into hours previous.

He and Sherlock had kissed, John knew that to be true. But he had run away. A message from Irene Adler and he had vanished. John had contemplated whether he had dreamed what had happened but his logic, that logic that had inflated in his mind since he met the great Sherlock Holmes, told him that what had happened was real.

But why, then, had Sherlock not said anything to him? It was clear that Sherlock wasn't the kind of person who expressed his emotions. And the outburst of passion that had followed a moment of such connection made it seem like Sherlock had revealed a hidden part of himself to John. Like he had allowed John to pass through the cold and calculating mind to see the heart that was hidden beneath.

But then he had shut down. Closed himself off more than before.

John barely felt the ache in his brow from the his frowning at the still passing world as he became more and more lost in the memory. The blurred world was nothing to John when compared to the black of his room and the ache in his chest. Sherlock wasn't the only one who had made himself so vulnerable, John had too. The doctor had allowed Sherlock to know just how much he cared for him. And to be shut out like this, with no explanation of the previous night, left John feeling raw.

He shook his head a little to stop himself from drowning in the ocean of confused emotion in which he was already struggling to keep afloat. Only then did John notice that the taxi had slowed a little as the driver rounded a final corner and stopped outside of a large warehouse.

He sighed loudly looking at the man to his right expectantly. He looked back at John, flashing a smile that warmed something deep within John's chest. The new found warmth spread until it found itself at his lips. They pulled back into a small smile that he forced away as soon as he noticed it's existence. He wasn't going to pretend that everything was okay. Because it wasn't. And not returning his smile showed Sherlock that, right?

John climbed out of the cab slowly, conscious of Sherlock's eyes on him. He hoped that the smile had been wiped from the slim man's face but some strange almost buzz in the air made him think otherwise.

He stepped onto the pavement looking up the building's wall with sceptical eyes. He couldn't believe Sherlock had brought him here to a random, probably abandoned, warehouse God knows where to meet a guy who was apparently a part of an evil organization. Oh, not forgetting the fact that he was immortal! There was no way Sherlock was so gullible that he believed someone could actually cheat death! This was reality, not some fictional fantasy that John read as a child.

Before John had time to contemplate whether Sherlock actually ever read fiction, he heard Sherlock exit the cab. The taller and slimmer man straightened his trusty black over coat as he turned his head a little towards his companion to say "pay the man, John" as he surveyed the building with wide and excited eyes.

John gave Sherlock a disbelieving look before reaching his hand into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet and turned back to the cab driver. He handed him a twenty and took his change with a forced smile of thanks. Turning back to Sherlock with and exasperated sigh as the cab drove to end of the silent, deserted street and rounded a corner. John's unease increased tenfold as he looked pleadingly to Sherlock for answers. The detective made for the door that blended into the wall of the building, it's paint a little chipped. John had an ominous feeling the started in the bottom of his stomach and curled it's way around all of John's internal organs, causing him to jump forward and grab Sherlock's coat turning him to face John.

"Sherlock, just- Just wait a minuet." He took a breath to clear the way for his words. "What are we doing? You can't actually believe that this guy is real? That he's lived this long?"

When Sherlock looked at him blankly, not even a frown to disturb his smooth features, John continued. "I don't think this is a good idea, Sherlock."

"Trust me John, I know what I'm doing." He didn't sound offended or hurt at the prospect of John not trusting him. John could barely detect any emotion over the excitement that rang clear as a bell.

"What about last night?" John spoke softly, a small part of him hoping that he'd spoken so quietly that Sherlock had missed his words and would continue on towards and through the door. No such luck was John's as Sherlock froze, turning to face John again. His face wore a shocked expression and he seemed to become a little smaller. John felt his cheeks burn hot as he blink away the embarrassment.

"What about last night?" He sounded as though his mouth was dry. He swallowed hard and John forced his eyes to remain locked with the Sherlock's and not follow the bobbing of his Adam's apple.

"We- You-" John couldn't find the words to describe the kiss without portraying his emotions. Instead he said "last night, you left. You left so quickly."

"I had to meet with Irine Adler," came the reply.

"But you left…" John couldn't take back the pained tone to voice. Nor could he stop his features contorting to emphasize his hurt. A moment of silence passed before John shifted his weight rubbing a hand over his face to clear it of expression.

When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was low and serious. "I'm sorry John. I know I should have said something but…" He looked at his feet. Was he embarrassed? It made John feel a whole lot better knowing that Sherlock was actually feeling something. "I wasn't sure whether I had dreamt up our…moment…"

Oh.

"Oh."

Sherlock frowned more to himself that at John. The smaller man step forward a little. His movement seemed to awaken his friend from the edge of wherever his mind went when he disappeared from the world.

The awkward silence was short lived as Sherlock jumped towards the door, excitement back with extra buzz. He pulled it open, a flake of pain catching the grey light of day as it fall to the ground. "Come on, John." Sherlock disappeared into the warehouse giving John no choice but to follow, leaving the dim daylight to enter the cold artificial light.


End file.
